My son’s face crumples, his mouth forms a huge trembling “O,” a silent, gasping sob. He is trying so hard not to lose control, not to succumb to the terror and anxiety that is threatening to take over. I can see him swallowing it, fighting with all he has. A few audible cries escape, he chokes them back, breathing hard, eyes wild. He is tearing my heart into pieces. I hate that he has to feel this way. I hate that there is no easy way to reassure him, that words I might speak cannot be understood, especially not right now in the grip of his overwhelm and paralytic anxiety. I say the words anyway, because I don’t know what else to do. All I can do is be there with him, and do my best to get him out of this place as quickly as possible. I put on my bitch face. I give short terse answers to the nurse and make it clear with my attitude that we need to speed things up.
The doctor arrives, a fresh faced med student in tow. My anguish, worry, and protective feelings for my son seem to morph further and further into anger, which is so much easier to channel, because anger means I can lash out, while the other feelings make me helpless. I internally remind myself how much I hate med students and their foolish questions and can’t they see this child is being tortured by this fucking place? Can’t they practice playing doctor with the parent of some other, undistressed child? Some child that is not mentally and emotionally imploding with anguish that mounts for every additional second we spend here?
“Rough morning?” The doctor asks kindly.
“No,” I say, “it’s only because we’re here. He’s a very happy child when we are not around doctors.” The med student attempts to ask me a few inane questions.
“When did the sleeping trouble begin?”
“This is all in his record,” I say shortly, making it clear I am not here for her to practice on. The doctor takes over, asking the pertinent questions, the ones we are actually there for, which will ensure that my child continues to receive refills on his medications. R. is losing his ability to hold back the tidal wave of panic and begins sobbing and hyperventilating in earnest. The doctor tries to show him a toy, which he politely hands directly to me in between gasps and cries. I know he is thinking “maybe if I give the object to the other adult I can finally go.” Therapy has taught him that seemingly meaningless actions might be rewarded with the thing he wants, in this case, to get out of this awful place. The knowledge that he thinks perhaps some performance will end this torture makes me feel even more upset. The doctor doesn’t understand and I try to explain “he thinks you want him to give it to me, like in ABA.” She then wants to discuss his therapies and progress, which really has nothing to do with her role as his sleep specialist. I give short, irritable answers until she gets the hint and wraps up the appointment. I get R. out of there as fast as possible. On the grass outside he drops to the ground and sobs. I hold him, on the grass beside the busy walkway. Dozens of people coming and going turn to stare. I don’t give a fuck. We sit on the grass and cry together. Then I carry him to the car, wipe our faces, and tell him, “School! We can go school now! See Ms. S., See Ms. C!” A trembling smile makes it’s way across his face. R loves school better than anything else in the world these days. We pull up to school and have our calm faces on. A fading tear stain across his cheek is the only remaining evidence of R’s ordeal. A staff person takes R’s hand, begins walking him toward his classroom. “Bye, R!” I call out. He doesn’t turn and look, but I see his free hand raise just an inch or so, a quick, awkward movement by his hip. But I immediately know he is trying to wave, which is something he’s working on at school. I am blown away. He’s the strongest, bravest person I know. I just wish he didn’t have to be.